She was a gentle, long-suffering orphan from Jiangnan; he was a proud, passionate young soldier.
Eight years side by side, and one promise to live and die together. They carved themselves into each other's bones and blood, swearing to stay together when the chrysanthemums bloomed, never to part or give up on each other.
But war was merciless, and terminal illness was closing in. To keep from becoming a burden to the other, they each chose, without consulting the other, the cruelest kind of mutual concealment.
He was left disabled with a shattered leg. He cruelly claimed he didn't love her, forcing her to find a safer life elsewhere.
She was in the late stages of a terminal illness. She quietly stopped taking her medicine and gave her life to help him fulfill his dream.
A fatal difference in timing meant that the day he returned was the day she had been gone for seven days.
From then on, he gave up acting to write books, never married, and stayed in an empty home, thinking of a departed soul. For the next forty-six years of his life, he waited in remorse, trying to atone.
They missed each other in life and embraced in death. They loved to the utmost and suffered to the bone.
It turns out the cruelest thing isn't being parted by death. It's loving you with all I've got, only for you to never know how much I loved you.
